Ian stood slowly, brushing the dirt and leaves from his jeans. His legs ached from the walk, his throat dry, but his eyes were still scanning and watching.
He couldn't sit there forever.
With the rifle back over his shoulder and his pack adjusted, he covered his head with the hood from his jacket, he started moving again. The trees thinned a little as he made his way farther downhill, he saw a path.
Not the kind of hiking trail he was used to. This was narrower, with pressed earth and light wagon ruts. Horses had passed through here. People too. The bootprints were deep. Old maybe, but clear enough. A few were barefoot.
And then — oddest of all — he saw the deep parallel grooves from wheels. Not rubber tires. Wooden. Like a carriage or old cart.
He crouched down and ran his fingers through the dirt, the texture giving way beneath his touch.
"Well… shit," he muttered.
Still, a road was a road. If people had passed through here, they had to be headed somewhere. A village? A settlement? Some kind of civilization?
He didn't know whether to feel hope or dread.
He stood up again and started walking, following the prints. The rifle was in his hands now, not slung. His finger rested near the trigger — not on it, but close. Just in case.
The further he walked, the louder his thoughts got.
Maybe I hit my head. Maybe I'm unconscious somewhere. Dreaming all this.
Or I walked into some kind of reenactment. Yeah, sure. Deep LARP country. Medieval cosplay with perfect terrain and no cell towers. That's possible.
But the thought didn't stick. It didn't explain the sky. The air. The way his skin felt, like the world was pressing in on him a little too tightly. The way the Yew had… pulled him.
No. It wasn't a dream. As much as he wanted it to be.
Still, he refused to believe he had travelled back in time.
Because if he admitted that…
Then he had to admit everything else, too. And he wasn't ready for that yet.
Ian soon heard the sound of hoof tapping against the wet road...he heard horses neighing.
His body tensed, instincts spiking. He wasn't alone.
He moved faster down the path, the rifle swinging slightly in his grip. Whatever was coming, he needed to see it. If it was people, maybe he could finally get answers. Maybe someone could tell him what the hell was going on.
The trees broke just enough for him to see.
A procession of riders, coming toward him down the dirt path at a steady pace. Eight of them. Each one sat tall on their horse, dressed in deep-colored cloaks and long tunics that looked like something straight out of a medieval film set, only it wasn't a set. The clothes moved with the wind. Dust clung to the hems. These weren't costumes. They were real.
Ian stopped.
He watched, squinting slightly. The riders were spaced evenly, surrounding a carriage in the center, large, heavy-looking, painted in rich dark wood with gold detailing that glinted faintly in the light. The wheels rolled smooth over the dirt. Deep purple curtains covered the windows completely.
Guards. They had to be. The way they flanked the carriage said everything. But something didn't add up.
No swords. No spears. No visible weapons at all.
Ian narrowed his eyes. Eight guards and not a single blade in sight? No sheathed daggers. Not even a belt pouch or bow. Nothing.
What kind of guards travelled unarmed?
The carriage itself… it was strange. The wood had a shine that didn't look like polish, it looked alive. And even from this distance, Ian could feel something off. Like… pressure. A kind of stillness that pressed in around it. Like the air bent slightly different near it. The closer it came, the more the hairs on his neck stood up.
There was someone important in there. They weren't just transporting some noble. That carriage held someone that mattered.
And Ian was standing right in their path. Still, he didn't move. He didn't hide. He needed answers. And for now, this was the only shot he had.
The horses slowed. Ian stood where he was, heart hammering, the rifle loose in his grip. Eight riders came into view, flanking a heavy wooden carriage like they were escorting royalty. The moment they spotted him, they pulled their reins and came to a halt a few paces ahead of him on the path.
They stared and examined him.
Their eyes flicked over his clothes, the hood on his head, the straps of the backpack, and especially the long dark object in his hand. The rifle. None of them had weapons that he could see, but they all looked like they knew how to fight.
The lead guard, a man with short-cropped dark hair and a square jaw, raised his hand.
"You. Halt."
Ian obeyed.
"I don't want trouble," he said quickly, both hands slightly raised, though he still held onto the rifle. "Look, I don't know where I am. I was with my friend...her name's Tessa...we were hiking and we found this tree, and next thing I know I'm alone here. The woods look different. Everything looks different."
The guards exchanged looks, not saying anything. Not blinking much either. Ian could tell they didn't understand what he was talking about.
The leader's voice came again, steady and commanding.
"Remove your hood. Let us see your face."
Ian hesitated, then slowly reached up and pushed the hood back.
The moment he did, their countenances changed. A tension settled instantly in the air. The guards straightened in their saddles. The horses pawed nervously at the dirt.
The lead guard's jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. Then, sharply, he barked:
"Surrender your weapon. Now."
Ian blinked, confused. "What? Why? I haven't done anything."
The guard didn't explain. He didn't repeat himself either.
The others were already moving, slowly pulling their horses to close the circle around Ian. He immediately knew he was in danger.